


Got That Itch

by MirandaShepard_93



Series: Charles & Rosie [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), rdr2 - Fandom
Genre: Charles is shy, Drunk Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, F/M, Pining, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23278561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirandaShepard_93/pseuds/MirandaShepard_93
Summary: A short, part fluff, part smut fic for Rosie and Charles.Things didn't go to Charles' plan immediately after their first night together, and he lets his worries get the better of them. Unfortunately for him, Rosie's under his skin; he's got an itch that won't quit, so they need to talk.
Relationships: Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Original Female Character(s), Charles Smith/Rosie Drummond
Series: Charles & Rosie [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631626
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aniphine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aniphine/gifts).



It's like sand in a wound, the need. Now that he's had her he can't seem to shake off the fog; there are terms for it, hundreds, though the one that Micah favours is cunt drunk. He's a pig, but for once Charles has to wonder if he's on to something. He almost feels drunk when she smiles at him, or touches his arm, or laughs... Almost pukes when she does it for anyone else. It's an itch he can't scratch. It's a hair in his eye; something he can't get rid of and still can't ignore. He can't be sure what he expected when they returned to camp, but it clearly wasn't business as usual. Had he expected her to move into his tent? Sit on his lap? Drape herself over him at night the way Molly did with Dutch? Well, yes, he concedes. He had sheltered the seeds of those hopeless, soft dreams all morning when they woke up. Taking every smile, every gentle touch as confirmation. Held them close on the ride home. His heart damn near leap out of his chest when she kissed him, just once, on a riverbank when they stopped to top up their water. Then she melted into the camp. A week later, and they hadn't been alone. Not for lack of trying, but whenever they had a moment someone wandered along, called out, encroached. What could he do? Corner her? Pull her to the side? Ask the others to leave? 

With a sigh, Charles heaves himself to his feet and stretches in the dying light, admits that maybe it's time he stopped sheltering those seeds. Concedes that maybe he just does have what they need to grow. Another party was brewing, it always was, and as the first whine of the violin begins to pierce the air he shakes his head and looks around for a quiet place. Usually, he ends up sleeping further into the forest that surrounds the camp. She's standing by the ledger, dropping something into the camp funds, and in the pink light of sunset, she's on fire. He wants to look away before she catches him staring like a lovesick boy or a gormless fool, but she turns smoothly as if knowing she's being watched and smiles at him. That damn smile. He finds himself waving, trying to smile back, even as the sick shame and mortification clash with the helpless adoration in the kind of violent concoction that he's sure has filled more jail cells than beds. 

"Mr Smith," she approaches him with the smile in place, but it falters as she comes within arms reach, "we haven't spoken much this week."

"Well, we don't usually speak very much at all," he says, and she almost winces. He has a second to reflect on the atrocity of the statement before her brows raise and the temperature drops four or five degrees, 

"No. I suppose not." Rosie says and turns on her heel, 

"Miss Drummond, Rose, wait!" He fights to keep his below a level that will attract attention, 

"Yes?"

"I didn't... I'm sorry, I just..." the silences makes a chasm between them, and the look on her face makes it clear that she has no intention of crossing it for him this time, "did I do something wrong?"

"Well, it's not the best greeting I've-"

"No, you know I don't mean that," he lets the frustration show, and she winces, "I mean before... did I... was that?"

"What, Charles?" Rosie sighs, all but stamping her foot, 

"Why are you avoiding me?" He asks, and her eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline as raucous laughter rises up near Pearsons' wagon, 

"Avoiding you? Mr Smith, I can assure you I have not been avoiding you. In fact, you've been avoiding me!" 

"I... what? No, that's'-"

"Alright, folks," Sean staggers a little, then looks at them and raises his hands, "am I interrupting?" Story of his life, 

"I... no," Charles says, but Rosie pushes Sean firmly, 

"Yes, fuck off Sean."

They gape at her. Sean, of course, recovers quickly, 

"Oh, I see how it is-"

"You couldn't see an arrow if it was in your eye, Mr McGuire. Remove yourself." She crosses her arms, and Charles swears he could marry her and never look at another woman in his life quite happily. It has very little to do with the way her breasts seem ready to spill over the neckline of her dress as she does so, but if he was pressed for the truth, he'd have to admit that's a part of it. Her sudden change to wearing dresses around the camp had surprised everyone, but he doubted anyone else was so fixated on the thought of her bare legs and or the soft golden blond hairs that covered them. As Sean staggered away, and behind him, Micah was looking at them. Perhaps Charles wasn't the only one with those thoughts, but he was the only one with the memories to compound that torture. He hoped. God, he hoped that was true. Rosie draws in a breath and spreads her arms, looking at Micah, "Problem, Mr Bell?"

"Not at all, Miss," he calls back with a grin, and touches his hat. As she turns the gold of her necklace catches the light and makes it impossible to look away from her throat. If he was vain, Charles would swear she started to wear light dresses and pull her hair up to torture him. 

"This is no good," she says, and his stomach drops. Then she turns on her heel, "come on."

"What?" Charles gapes, 

"Come with me," she says, looking over her shoulder, "let's find somewhere quiet."

They take refuge by the horses, behind a wagon. He half expects Mary-Beth to be reading in her usual spot, but even she's joining the celebrations. Back here the light is dull, and Rosie's features are dull and indistinct. She's like a watercolour of herself, and he suddenly becomes afraid she's not really there. Charles reaches out and brushes hair away from her face, fingertips almost crackling with the feel of her. The feather-light touch seems to draw the anger out of her like poison, her shoulders droop, 

"I thought you were avoiding me, Charles. Every time I tried to get you alone..." she shrugs, 

"I never asked anyone to interrupt us," he said, 

"But you never sent them away."

"Neither did you," he says it, but it's dawning on him that perhaps, just perhaps, that's not how women feel they should act. Even brave, surprising ones like Rosie, 

"No. I suppose not." She hugs her arms as if protecting herself from the world. From him. Somehow its that look of fear that makes him brave; Charles wraps his arms around her and pulls her to his chest,

"I don't regret what happened," he says, "and I hope you don't, either-"

"No." She shakes her head, "I don't."

"and I care about you," he says, trying to ignore the way his body shakes, betraying the galloping fear in his heart, "a lot."

Rosie pulls back to look up at him, 

"I care about you, too, Charles." She smiles. "Alot... but that's not enough." His heart sinks. "I won't sneak around like we're doing something wrong. If you won't hold my hand in public, don't expect to find it in the dark."

"Why would I want to hide you?" He shouldn't laugh, but he does. It's ridiculous, "Rose, if anyone is going to have trouble from this it's you... I mean," he falters and then makes a motion to himself. She shakes her head, but her mouth is a thin line. She understands, 

"It's not you that's the problem, it's them." 

"I know," he smiles, small and frightened, 

"They can go fuck themselves." She says, and he can't help the bark of laughter. "What?" Rosie shrugs. "They should... no one else will."

This time they laugh together, and when he feels her breath on his face Charles realises how quickly the light has faded. The single lantern by the horses casts a warm, dim glow that burns away the frustration and shame, leaving only the memories, and the intoxicating effect of her smell, and the itch. It's like sand in a wound. Like having a bead of sweat trickle down a hidden crevice. Like a hair in his eye. He can't ignore it, and he can't scratch it. Not alone. He swallows, searches for the right tool for this job. 

"You can fuck me if you like." Its a blunt instrument so clumsy that he's sure it's broken something in him, as well as this thing between them. Rosie blinks three times in the gloom and then laughs, but it's high and slightly nervous, she purses her lips and lets her hand rest lightly on his arm, 

"That's good to know, Mr Smith," she whispers, "I'll keep that in mind." Then she kisses his cheek and slips into the light, leaving him burning with that familiar mix of gut-aching need and shame,

"I... Rose, I'm sorry,"

"Why?" She turns to look at him with a wicked grin, "it _is_ good to know."

"I... well... but..." it's like trying to build a ship in a bottle, figuring her out. She's not offended. In fact, she seems pleased. But he's standing in the shadow of the wagon alone, aching, and very much... well, not fucked in the worst of ways. But he wants to be, oh God, he wants it so badly he thinks he wouldn't care if it meant nothing to her. She could press him down and ride him the same way she would a stolen horse, recklessly and carelessly and with no thought other than the destination, and he'd still thank every God he could name for the pleasure of being used, as long as he could believe it would happen again,

"An offer isn't a question, Mr Smith," she says, "nor is it a statement of intent.... and that wasn't either, was it?"

Damn her she's right, and she's turning to the party, and for a minute there's a flash behind his eyes. The half-formed, barely coherent image of gripping her hair and dragging her back to him almost seeps into his mind, but he shuts it down,

"Wait -" its like panic, this fizzing feeling. She turns back and rolls her eyes, approaching his outstretched hand slowly, 

"What?" 

"I..." there are words for this, he knows, beyond asking about a price. There must be. How else are there so many children littering the world? "Um. I mean..."

"Come and have a drink with me," she says, "let's dance." And the traitorous woman pulls him out of the shadows, dragging them into the light. But she doesn't let go of his hand. Pulls him to a free space and coaxes a dance out of him even as his face burns and the comments trickle in. Their good nature doesn't make it easier to bear; he feels _watched_. Like a bear in a zoo. So he drinks, just like she asked him to. And the itch grows until he feels like it's eating him from the inside out and every movement she makes is a taunt or an invitation. The summer dress is light, pale blue, and so light that he swears he can almost see the shadow of her legs on the skirt when she stands in front of the fire. She spins and her face flushes, and some of that red hair floats out of place to curl by her neck and all he can think about is how his clothes scratch, and constrict, and itch. God, why does everything make him _itch?_

He feels like a predator stalking its prey when she leaves the bustle of the party and he follows her, but, then again, he's been following her like a lost dog all night. She half turns and sees him, 

"Still with me, Mr Smith?"

"Always."

"Good," she blows a kiss over her shoulder before grabbing a bottle of whisky from the box and sliding to sit against a wagon wheel. She holds it out to him, shakes it, and the memory rushes back, _you can have it if you want it,_ he drops to his knees and takes it from her, "hey!" The grumble disappears under his lips, 

"Rose," he says her name like a question, 

"Yes?"

"I want to fuck you, and if you keep teasing me like this I may have to bend you over the poker table." 

"That's not much of a question," she snorts and laughs, still teasing as she reaches for the bottle. Careful to keep her head from hitting the wheel, Charles drags her down onto her back and slips between her legs, "Charles!" Rosie squeals, but there's a laugh behind it that makes him smile,

"No, it' a statement of intent," he says, "will we find somewhere private?"


	2. Chapter 2

It's the wicked set to her mouth and the glint in her eye that will stay with Charles long after they return to the party but at the moment its the kiss that melts what's left of his mind, 

"There's no-one here now," Rosie says it so simply... as if that's the only possible concern. As if time should stop for them, and she couldn't care less if it didn't. 

"No, there isn't," he says, because it's the truth and there's really nothing else for it when her hand is already sliding down his stomach towards his crotch, taking the last of his willpower with it. Her hand is cool on his stomach when she pulls his shirt up, "isn't - ah," she finds what she's looking for, "are you comfortable?" The ground is hard under his palms, 

"What?" She's almost panting, eyes bright and feverish, 

"The ground, isn't it... aren't you..." he trails off when she pushes his jeans down further, using the extra space to set a gentle rhythm that makes his eyes water and his breath come short, 

"What?" She asks again, but this time she's grinning like a cat toying with its prey. A tiny voice in the back of his mind tells him he might just get both of his wishes; perhaps she does care, but that doesn't mean she won't toy with him for fun. Charles shakes his head and balances on one arm, pushing her skirt up hastily, growling in frustration when she squirms and swats his hand away from her undergarments, 

"Rose," he hisses, and she giggles, 

"What?" She tightens her grip, speeds up, and covers his mouth with her free hand when he whimpers. 

He can't say how he ended up on his back, or quite how she managed to turn them without making a racket so loud that the whole camp paid mind, but she does it smoothly and they end up in a much better position. For a start, they're further behind the crates. And he can see the majority of the camp over her shoulder. Of course, making him the lookout is perhaps the worst ideas she's ever had considering that her plan seems to be rolling his eyes so far back in his head that he can see the inside of his skull. Her mouth is hot, almost scalding, and he fights the urge to tell her no. To tell her that he hasn't bathed today. He fights it because of the look she gave him before planting a firm kiss on his chest, but also because he can't quite deny himself this fantasy in the flesh. Selfish. Self-indulgent. He bites his fist; worth it, even if he has to battle the desire to wonder how she got so damn good at it. She takes him all the way down, nose brushing his crotch and he bites back a strangled yelp. Oh yes, he thinks, very manly. She pulls and away and chuckles, shushes him as if he's a sweaty-palmed, wide-eyed teenager instead of a hardened killer, and then reduces him to a pained, pitiful whimper in within seconds. He wants to ask her if they can revisit this somewhere more private. In a hotel, maybe, where the only people who can hear him shaming himself are strangers and working girls... but of course, to do that he'd have to ask her to do this again. 

He grits his teeth and pants, twice, like a man withstanding torture. How thin the lines between pleasure and pain are. 

When he cracks it's sudden. In a moment he realises he can't continue without either yelping or finishing, or both, and drags her to his mouth unceremoniously, hands under her arms, 

"Charles," she giggles, 

"I can't," he shakes his head, "I-"

"I know," she snorts, barely whispering at all, "that was the idea."

"No," he shakes his head and settles her on his lap, "not tonight." 

"Oh? Another night then?"

Shit. 

"I... that's not..." he stutters, tongue three times thicker than it should be, cock throbbing, head spinning. She's smiling again, chuckling, "you're an insufferable tease." Its the strongest statement of disapproval he can think of, but she only chortles and sinks onto him, "fuck." 

"Quite."

She does ride him recklessly, but not carelessly; she kisses his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. She strokes his back and doesn't pull away when he buries his face in her neck. Doesn't complain when he sinks his teeth into her shoulder. He balls his fists in the loose fabric of her skirt, torn between the need to grip her hips and the fear of leaving bruises on the delicate skin there. There's a moment where his heart stops and he's sure they are about to be interrupted, but she covers his mouth and slows to a stop grinning on the other side of her own hand as Artur and John pass by on the other side of the wagon, 

"He'll turn up, Arthur, you know he don't like parties," John speaks with the same borderline exasperation as always, the tinge of arrogance that makes everyone around him ready for a fight even when he means well, 

"I know... it's not like him to go without Taima, though." They're looking for him, he realises and his heart thuds even as Rosie squirms and his cock throbs,

"Then he's in the forest somewhere,"

"Probably."

"Charles!" John calls, and Rosie covers her own mouth to smother the laugh. If they get caught, he thinks, he'll... well what will he do? Being caught with your pants tangled at your knees and a beautiful woman on your lap isn't the worst thing that can happen to a man in his profession. Arthur grumbles, suddenly too close for comfort, 

"Leave him,"

"Cha-"

"I said leave him, John. He don't want to be bothered, and it ain't desperate. We'll get him in the morning."

"Yeah, alright. Sure."

And they walk away. 

Or they must because there's no more conversation and no-one in sight. Rosie keeps her hand on his mouth and winks at him in the gloom, using his shoulder for leverage as she starts to move, 

"Better be quick," she whispers, and if he could speak he'd tell her that that really wasn't going to be an issue. Instead, he grips her hips and takes control, and her hand slowly slips from his mouth to his shoulders, then she lets her head droop until it rests on his shoulder and all he can hear are the sharp, high gasps that come with every thrust. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and starts to melt, thighs shaking on either side of his hips, and he's struck again by how small she feels. Her legs are splayed almost ridiculously around him, and her hands scrabbling at his shirt feel soft as feathers and when she kisses him all he can wonder about, all he can picture is the obscene idea of how her mouth would have looked wrapped around him had he light allowed a better view. 

The itch, he realises shortly after, wasn't going to go anywhere. He's only pushing her deeper under his skin. The itch, the overwhelming desire to bury himself in her and devour her from the inside out might never go away. He presses his nose into her hair and allows one, low groan out, and smiles when she whimpers in response. They slow to a snails pace as she starts to shake and presses her face to his shoulder, gasping hard once, twice, three times and a seep of heat makes him grin, 

"Don't look so damn smug," she manages to whisper, but her body is soft and warm and relaxed and she rests her head on his shoulder as he changes his grip. For a second he considers pulling away and letting her stay as she is. It seems a shame to shatter the soft, peaceful way she's settled against him. Then Rosie sighs and squirms, making his toes curl. No, he realises as he grips her hips firmly, that's for a less selfish man. He needs to feel it too, to know this happened. Thankfully it only takes a few moments; something about the heat, and the exhaustion that's creeping in, and the smell of her sweat throws him over the edge almost too quickly for him to separate them. He does a poor job of it; she'll need to wash her dress, even if ith evidence isn't visible. He can tell by the slick feel of her thighs against his.

"So," Rosie whispers, "you're not avoiding me, then?"

Charles gapes, heart thudding, and wipes a bead of sweat away from his forehead, 

"No, Rose, I'm not avoiding you."

"Good," she says and kisses his cheek before she stands, "drink?"


End file.
